Then realizing, I think, that he was followed by strength
rather than by skill or cunning, the noble old fellow tried a
last trick, which came near being the end of my hunting
altogether.
The trail turned suddenly to a high open ridge with scattered
thickets here and there. As they labored up the slope I had the
does in plain sight. On top the snow was light, and they bounded
ahead with fresh strength. The trail led straight along the edge
of a cliff, beyond which the deer had vanished. They had stopped
running here; I noticed with amazement that they had walked with
quick short steps across the open. Eager for a sight of the buck
I saw only the thin powdering of snow; I forgot the glare ice
that covered the rock beneath. The deer's sharp hoofs had clung
to the very edge securely. My heedless feet had barely struck the
rock when they slipped and I shot over the cliff, thirty feet to
the rocks below. Even as I fell and the rifle flew from my grasp,
I heard the buck's loud whistle from the thicket where he was
watching me, and then the heavy plunge of the deer as they jumped
away.
A great drift at the foot of the cliff saved me. I picked myself
up, fearfully bruised but with nothing broken, found my rifle and
limped away four miles through the woods to the road, thinking as
I went that I was well served for having delivered the deer "from
the power of the dog," only to take advantage of their long run
to secure a head that my skill had failed to win.
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